


every devil needs an angel

by empty_throne



Series: Scent of Blood [6]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3849001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empty_throne/pseuds/empty_throne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Expansion of the fifth "five twists of the soul" drabble. Claire goes too far ... and it turns out to be just far enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every devil needs an angel

One of the cuts on his back has opened up again. He didn't wait long enough for it to heal; he was back out on the street too soon, like he always is, and now there's a dark line of blood down his pale skin, and she ought to pick up a gauze pad and wipe it away but she hasn't. Not yet.

Matt sits very still, because he knows she's looking at him. Probably thinks he knows what she's thinking. But he doesn't--not this time.

He can tell when she turns away, though, and he can tell something is different. "Talk to me," he says.

She swallows. "Some things go too far."

He's silent. Thinking about it. Putting the pieces together. "The blood?"

It's still there. For a moment she feels like she has Matt's heightened perception, like she can _see_ the blood even if she isn't looking at it. "I'm not a goddamned vampire."

She can hear him draw in a sharp breath. Sometimes she wishes he hadn't taught her to pay attention to her other senses. Then he says, "I don't mind."

She squeezes her eyes shut. "No. No, I told you--it's too much. It isn't _sanitary_." Her mind is filled with thoughts of bacteria, infection, blood-borne diseases. But only because she's reminding herself of those things, deliberately, as a defense against the other thoughts that want to come rushing in.

"You washed the wound pretty well."

"It's _blood_ , Matt. It won't be clean no matter what I do."

More silence. Then he shrugs. She's made the mistake of looking at him again, and she sees the blood drop run a bit farther down his back when he does. And then, without making any conscious choice, she does what she's been longing to do for months: she leans in and licks his skin, gathers the blood up with her tongue and swallows. It doesn't taste any different from her own blood, when those Russians beat her up, but the shiver goes right down to her toes.

He doesn't say anything then, not for the rest of the night, and not for weeks to come. But they both know something changed, even if neither of them will say it. Something they can't take back.

Then one night he comes in through her window, and somebody's been at him, hard. And instead of snarling in anger at whatever is wrong out on the streets, or making some weary quip about the guy who did that to him, he takes her face between his hands and kisses her, with his mouth full of blood.

She's tasted traces before. That drop on his back, or all the times he's split his lip and it's cracked a bit while they're kissing. This is more. This is his lips cut by his own teeth, the wounds still fresh and seeping. The kiss floods her mouth with copper, and she devours it with an eagerness that disturbs her, sucking at his lips to get every trace. Her nerves are instantly on fire. The two of them stumble backward until she runs into the kitchen counter, and then he strips off his shirt and there's a cut right there, on his collarbone, not too deep but enough to bleed. She licks it clean, all delicacy forgotten, all decency. It's wrong and dirty and she doesn't care, she just wants Matt in her, _now_.

He lifts her up onto the counter in one easy movement, unbuttons her jeans and drags them down. Then-- "Wait," she pants, holding him back with one hand. There are already bloodstains on her shirt, but this isn't about keeping it clean. It's about feeling him against her skin. She fumbles her way out of it, snarling when the buttons won't cooperate, and tosses her bra aside. When he thrusts into her, the blood smears across her breasts, and she moans.

Her head drops, her fingers digging into his shoulder. The cut on his collarbone is only bleeding a little now, but she fastens her mouth over it and sucks, without thinking. It has to hurt--she knows that because Matt shudders, hips jerking. And she knows then that this isn't just something she wants; he wants it, too. Maybe needs it. He has to suffer, has to hurt, has to sacrifice himself for others. Penance, for the devil inside him.

This time she puts teeth behind it, grinding against the bone. The cut bleeds more freely. Her right hand finds some other slickness in his side, some wound she didn't even pay attention to before, and she digs her thumb into it. Matt's thrusts become frantic, his breath a harsh rasp in her ear. Some tiny, dying shred of her rationality thinks _what the fuck am I doing, I'm_ hurting _him, I'm not supposed to do that_ \--but she can barely hear it over her own cries, and then she comes so hard she's blind with it, unaware of anything except ecstasy and Matt spending himself in her.

She doesn't want to separate from him. When she does, the blood will dry to a sticky crust, and she'll have to face what she just did. She stays where she is, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other slipped down from where it dug in and resting gently on his hip. Heat touches her skin, and she realizes Matt is crying.

"Oh God," she whispers, her own eyes burning. "Matt--I'm so sorry--"

_I'm sorry I did that to you. I'm sorry I'm so fucked up. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry._

"Thank you," he whispers, and the gratitude isn't for her apology, but for the release.

Every devil needs an angel, armed with a scourge of fire.

**Author's Note:**

> There may be one more Matt/Sadistic Claire story in me, because this idea of martyrdom is still stuck in my head and going in *very* wrong directions.


End file.
